It wasn't her idea of playing house.
'If I'd've known that spending the weekend with you was gunna mean having to cook and do the washing, I'd've proberly thunk twice about it.'
She didn't like the way he looked up at her, his eyes sliding lazily off the edge of the magazine to find the source of the noise, as if she were nothing more than a fly buzzing around the hot, stifling room.
'What were you expecting?'
She shrugged. She seemed to spend a lot of time in his presence shrugging. She never really knew what was going on.
He folded the magazine shut with what she considered a very parental gesture. She resented that constant patronising attitude of his. He was only two years older than her, after all.
'How about I make doing the washing a bit more exciting for you, then, pet?'
The magazine was put down upon the table and his fingers were steepled. Like he was a supervillain in a Bond movie or something.
He was waiting on her to decide. She wasn't sure whether she liked that or not. It wasn't really something she was used to, being given the power of choice. Usually she was just waiting for him to tell her what was going to happen.
'OK,' she said, feeling a thrill of defiance.
Which was when she realised that she hadn't really made a decision about what they were going to do at all. She'd only allowed him permission to do whatever it was he was going to do all along.
Still. That was something, she figured.
He stood up and lifted her summer frock over her head without preamble or permission. She was topless underneath, of course, and her undies had little bunnies on them. She hadn't really thought about it before, but she realised right then that if she were to establish herself as an adult with equal rights and privileges to him, she might need to review her choice of under-apparel.
'Take those off.'
He walked away and left her to take her own undies off. That seemed a little anti-climactic. She half expected him to kiss her perking breasts, work his way slowly and sensuously down the velvety swell of her tummy to the top band of her bunny pants, pausing a tantalising moment before them off, and plunging his hot, urgent tongue into her meaty gash...
She had no idea why she expected that to happen, since he never ever worshipped her naked body like that. It was always up to her to worship his naked body, paying homage to the royal sceptre of his erect prick. Her own nudity was a means to an end, and almost irrelevant.
So she pulled her own bunny pants off and tossed them onto a chair. And then she stood there, her arms self-consciously crossed over her well-budded breasts, her summer-trim muff exposed to the warm summer air, waiting.
So, yes. She was waiting on him. As usual.
Cars drove clatteringly past on the gravel road running past the beach house. She wondered shyly if they could see her through the front window, the gauzy curtains providing only a token screen, had anyone chanced to glance in her direction.
She followed the sound of his voice, padding on her bare feet across the dusty carpet and cool lino, tiptoeing outside, where she found him in the backyard, holding the garden hose.
She smiled uncertainly.
He smiled with a great deal of certainty.
He pointed the hose at her and pulled the trigger.
She shocked at how strong the jet of water was. It exploded between her boobs, sending a mist of droplets of all sizes in all directions, drilling against her sternum. She raised her hands to defend herself and squealed, eyes closed against the ongoing punch of the water.
The jet switched rapidly down to her muff, blasting her cunt so hard that for a moment she thought her clitoris had been blown right off. Her hands flew futilely to protect her drenched pubes, and then the jet targeted her unprotected head.
There was no breath left for squealing. The water was an irresistible force, oppressing her with its insistence. She thought to run, but water in her eyes made that a dubious proposal. She could imagine running blind straight into a wall, or the clothes hoist, and knocking herself out.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, the water stopped.
She stood in the cushiony grass, dripping, trying to suck some air into her lungs.
Finally, she had enough breath to form words.
The water smacked her in the face, blinding her again. She turned her back on it - the most she could do - and then it probed at her arse cleft, pummelled the backs of her knees, and cannoned off her shoulders.
Spared a full frontal assault, she wiped water away from her eyes and looked around her through the spray. She could see that she could run back inside, and wondered what her chances of making it to safety without dire consequences were.
She took a step, and the water stopped again.
Nothing happened. She stood stock still, feeling bruised all over where the jet had been trained on her. When nothing had happened for a good long time, she turned tentatively around, to see what he was doing.
He was standing there, fully dressed and dry as a drawer liner, his face expressionless. He was holding a peg, the hose dropped and forgotten. Its contribution to the afternoon's entertainment was over.
'You're wet,' he looked her up and down, as if it had all been her doing, and she was a naughty girl for allowing it to happen. 'Time to hang you out to dry.'
She looked at him, still dripping. What now?
He dropped to a squat, reached his hand between her thighs, and carefully smoothed the black, matted pubic hair aside from her labia. With the deft touch of a veterinarian handling a fractious cat, he teased out one water-chilled flap, and gently attached the wooden peg to it. She winced at the exquisite pain nipping at her goose-pimpled skin. Then she felt herself shudder, the way she shuddered when he sank all the way inside of her with that sceptre prick of his.
He stood up, and stepped back to admire the effect, clearly pleased with his work.
'Now, wasn't that more fun? What's for dinner?'